I don’t brake for squirrels.
I don’t swerve either.
I pray for them.
I plead with them.
I yell at them.
They seem suicidal,
Daring even.
They’re just doing
As told.
“Go play in the street.”
“Cross the road, or halfway.”
I stay centered
In the lane,
White knuckled,
Eyes forward.
They, one eye
At a time,
This and that.
“Make up your mind!”
“Move!”
“Squirrel, squirrel,
Squirrel!”
“Oh, for crying…”
“Please, no!”
No thump.
Nothing in the rearview.
No yellow pasted
Like the centerlines
They dance around.
I sigh and mumble.
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